I am sure that when I tell people that my grandfather served
in three wars (World War II, Korea, and Vietnam) they imagine a hero. Likely,
they think of him as a young man—painfully kissing a young woman goodbye as he
heads off to serve his country. Quite possibly they think of a dignified old
man—one who flies a flag outside of his home and suits up each Veteran’s day
and displays medals proudly in his living room.
Neither of these pictures is accurate.
I never met my grandfather. He died 6 years before I was
born. He was drunk, and he got hit by a car. From what I have pieced together,
he got drunk because he was upset that my father cancelled dinner plans with
him. We do not know for sure if it was an accident. When he died, my grandfather
was attempting to make amends after abandoning his wife and seven children a decade earlier. Before he left his family, my
grandfather regularly beat my grandma. And before that he served in the
military.
And before that—well I actually have no idea because I never
met my grandfather, and I don’t speak with my father that much.
I write these things not to speak ill of the dead, but
rather to be honest about the person my grandfather was—the person that decades
of war created him to be.
I know few other things about my grandfather.
I know that when he married my grandma, she had a child
from a previous relationship. I know that he treated my oldest uncle as if he
were his own child. Last summer when my Grandma Bridget passed away, my uncle
talked openly about the “good times” with my grandfather.
I know that my grandma kept his name in spite of the
abuse and ultimate abandonment she suffered. I know that she spoke kindly of
him in spite of everything she endured, which I suppose says more about her than it does about him.
I also know that my grandfather lost a dear friend in World
War II. The story goes that upon being deployed in the Pacific Theater, he was
fatefully reunited with a childhood friend. Throughout their time together they
became so close that made plans to return home and become roommates. Shortly
before the war ended, my grandfather’s friend was killed by a bomb. And my
grandfather watched it happen.
When I speak about my grandfather, it is important to
include all of these stories. Except, I don’t actually know any of this. That is the thing about not knowing someone—everything
you know about them is second hand.
And, in my case, most of my information comes from my father—and most of that
information was told to me only once in my life—and that “once in my life” was
quite a while ago.
Today is Veteran’s Day—and for some reason I have been
thinking about my grandfather all day. I have been thinking about the effect he
has had on my life. Honestly, I hadn’t given it (or him) much thought until
today. Obviously, my grandfather is an integral part of my existence. But his impact on my life runs far deeper than that See—as I mentioned above, my
grandfather had faults, and those faults colored the way my father viewed the
world. My father never raised a hand—or even his voice—to us. But he also grew
increasingly absent throughout my childhood. He has struggled with addiction,
depression, and insomnia. Some of this is inherited, some of this is
environmental—and some of it stems from the guilt he feels for the night his
father died.
I don’t know my father, but I know that the night my
grandfather died changed his life forever. He has no reason to feel guilty, but
he is human, and humans feel guilt even when it’s illogical.
As I’ve reflected today, I wondered how different my life
would be if my grandfather had lived. Then, I wondered how my life would be
different if my grandfather never went to war. Then I wondered how my life
would be different if my grandfather received proper psychological services
when he returned from war.
And that’s the thought I can’t get out of my head. Perhaps
if my grandfather would have been properly cared for in the years following his
military service, he would not have done some of the terrible things he did.
Perhaps he would have been able to grapple with his addictions and his anger in
a better way. Perhaps he wouldn’t have left his family. Perhaps, my father
wouldn’t have left me.
In this rabbit hole of Veteran’s Day thoughts, two things
occurred to me. Firstly, I realized that many of us are walking around as
casualties of wars that ended decades before we were born. I certainly am. I
realized that if this is my family’s story, it’s likely the story of many
others. How many of us children of
single mothers can trace our daddy issues back to granddaddy issues? And how
many of those granddaddy issues can be traced back to Veterans abandoned to
deal with their issues on their own? Secondly, I realized that we need to stop
deifying veterans. Salute a veteran, sure. Observe a moment of silence in honor
of veterans and fallen soldiers, of course. Thank a veteran, absolutely. Ignore
the darkness that war inflicts on all people involved? Absolutely not. We need
to make sure that our discussions of and with veterans recognize their humanity—because
we cannot do anything to improve the situation of veterans until we acknowledge
that they are more than heroes—they are humans.
Perhaps if society had
collectively viewed my grandfather this way, my story and my family’s would be
different.
